Kiss Me Lady One More Time

by Deb Marlowe

  “We won’t. On our honor.” Whiddon tossed him a coin.

  Sterne was already on his feet. “To hell with breakfast.” He could see the end of this, at last. “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  * * *

  * * *

  “We are just two ladies, enjoying a nice morning in the garden square,” Hope insisted. She looked around. “Or do we call this the garden round?” she quipped. “In any case, who could object?”

  “No one,” answered Penelope. “All I must do is walk around the shrubbery and I am able to see your doorstep.”

  “Exactly,” Hope said with satisfaction. “And if we happen to find ourselves with the ability to keep an eye on Lord Sheffield’s door, and perhaps note who comes and goes, then so much the better.”

  “Even better if we could find an excuse to call.”

  “That might be more than we can manage. I’ve met Lord Sheffield in passing, but I don’t believe I’ve ever encountered his wife.”

  Penelope sighed. “Oh, well. We shall keep our eyes peeled, in any case.”

  “Let’s take this bench. We can see the door clearly from here. And while we wait, you can tell me what occurred between you and Sterne. You were quite pink when Tensford and I left you, yesterday.”

  For the first time, she didn’t wish to talk of it. Sterne was so skittish. She felt sometimes as if she were coaxing a feral creature out into the light. She straightened. Yes, that’s exactly what it felt like. He would take a step and happiness would bloom. He talked of connection and that was exactly what was between them, in both the emotional and physical sense. They had both been completely engaged yesterday, but she’d felt it when they were interrupted. He’d rethought it, stepped away, perhaps even regretted it. Back he’d gone, into the shadows. Why?

  “I heard he left an article for you, this morning?” Hope raised a brow. “I think we should take it as a good sign.”

  “I would like to,” she admitted. It wasn’t as solid and conventional a declaration as the traditional bouquet of flowers, but honestly, an article on the regional distribution of various and unique forms of North American fauna suited her so much better. “To tell the truth, though, I don’t know what to think, from one moment to the next. I feel pulled in and pushed away in rapid succession.”

  Hope smiled reminiscently. “Tensford was much the same. I had to—Look!” her friend said suddenly. “Someone is approaching Sheffield’s door—and isn’t it your cousin?”

  She craned her neck to see. “Yes. It is James.” She frowned. “The butler’s left him waiting on the doorstep.” She glanced over at her friend. “Is that usual?”

  “No. It is not.” Hope frowned. “Either something is happening in that house or Mr. Lycett is known to the butler—and known not to be welcome.”

  “Let’s walk a little closer.” Penelope pulled her bonnet strings tighter and the brim down lower. “Don’t let him see us, though.”

  They strolled slowly, arm in arm, heads bent together to converse.

  “He looks impatient,” she said. “Perhaps a little angry. And he’s still wearing that same coat, with the button missing.”

  “That is surely not why he’s been kept waiting. Oh, here’s the butler now.” Hope tensed. “He’s turning him away!”

  “And James is not happy about it.” She could hear the tone as her cousin railed at the servant, but could not make out the words.

  “Let’s head for the gate over there. We’ll follow a bit and see what he does.” Hope said. “Whoops. There he goes. Hurry.”

  “I don’t think Tensford would approve,” she objected, though she kept pace with her friend.

  “Nonsense. We will go no further than Oxford Street, I promise.”

  They didn’t have to go so far, in the end. James marched out of the square onto Orchard, but he didn’t walk for long. A carriage waited just at the turn onto Somerset. He climbed in and it started forward.

  “Can you see any markings?” she asked.

  “No,” Hope mused. “But I do believe I caught sight of a woman’s profile inside.”

  They turned to walk back. “James keeps popping up.” And Penelope was getting an uneasy feeling about it. “You don’t suppose he’s involved with the stolen fossil, do you?”

  “I hope not.” Hope squeezed her hand.

  “I just can’t see it. He’s able to charm the women, but I’ve always thought it to be his only skill. Honestly, he’s not very bright.”

  “It’s likely just a coincidence . . . wait! Look there! Isn’t that our carriage? And it has passed the turn into our side of the square.”

  They watched while the carriage turned into the side of the square they’d been watching, and pulled up in front of Lord Sheffield’s home. The door opened and Tensford, Whiddon and Sterne spilled out and went to knock on the door.

  “Well! They were admitted quickly enough, weren’t they?” Hope tugged on her arm. “Come. Let’s go see what is happening.”

  * * *

  ***

  * * *

  “All I know is exactly what I’ve said.” The Viscount Sheffield sat at ease in a chair, puffing on a cigar. He’d offered them around, but only Whiddon had accepted. They both puffed contentedly, and smoke curled about all their heads.

  “Start again, at the beginning, if you please,” Sterne asked.

  Sheffield sighed. “Stillwater was here. He is a . . . correspondent, really, more than a friend. He’s as interested in the latest geological finds as I am, and we have occasionally shared information in order to fill out our fossil collections. He asked if he could stay here for a short time, and of course, I agreed.”

  “But he is no longer staying with you?” Tensford asked.

  “No. He left quite suddenly and unexpectedly.”

  “When was that?” Sterne watched him closely.

  “Two days ago.”

  “On the same day that Tensford arrived in Town? Do you think they are related?”

  Sheffield blew out a column of smoke. “Yes, exactly then. And yes, I think they are related. Though it did surprise me. He is quite caught up with the mystery of your missing fossil fish, sir.”

  “Perhaps because he doesn’t wish us to discover that he stole it,” Sterne commented sourly.

  “Do you think that he took it, Sheffield?” Tensford asked.

  “I rather thought the opposite—that he wished to find the person who took it. But he could have been dissembling, of course.”

  “And we’re to believe that he ran back to Gloucestershire because he didn’t wish to run into Tensford?” Whiddon sounded skeptical.

  “Oh, I don’t believe he went home. He won’t leave Town for a few more days, at least.”

  “Not until after Rowland’s masquerade?” Sterne asked sharply.

  Sheffield stopped mid-puff. “You know about that?”

  “Yes, and about the much-anticipated revelation and the possible auction, as well.”

  “Well, now.” Sheffield set his cigar aside. “That was the one thing Stillwater asked of me. He wanted me to get him an invitation to the evening.” He looked between them all. “I hadn’t planned on going to the affair, but now I think I must not miss it.”

  “You don’t know where Stillwater is now?” Tensford asked.

  “No. But I will send word if I find out.” He shook his head. “It’s a bad business. I’d be furious if I suffered such a loss. It makes me worry for my own collection.” He stood. “Speaking of which, I’d be happy to show you—”

  “Thank you. Perhaps another time.” Tensford had stood as well.

  Sterne ignored the niceties and stalked out, seething with frustration. He needed air and a moment to think. He let the other two tend to the leave taking and left, sending a footman scrambling to get the door ahead of him.

  He strode out—and pulled up short.

  Lady Tensford and Penelope stood near the gate . . . patently waiting.

  He rather thought Penelope’s foot
was tapping.

  His heart beat erratically, as jumpy as a shying horse. He flushed so quickly and thoroughly that he felt the progress of it.

  So damned lovely. It was what he’d said before he leaned down to touch her nipple with his tongue.

  Devil take it, he should never have done it.

  Saints help him, all he wanted was to do it again.

  He could hear the clatter as Tensford and Whiddon exited the house behind him. They grew silent as they must have caught sight of the ladies.

  “Well, then,” Hope declared. “I should like a cup of tea while you tell us what you’ve been up to.”

  * * *

  * * *

  * * *

  There was much animated discussion about the various pieces of the puzzle they had so far uncovered. Sterne and Whiddon were still convinced that Stillwater was the likeliest thief. Penelope fetched her notebook and put down all the new information in it, but she was absorbed with the question of why her cousin kept popping up in their investigation—and how she could discover the answer.

  “Oh, do let us talk of something else, at least until the tea comes,” the countess said at last. “Penelope, didn’t you have something to show Sterne?”

  Penelope started out of her reverie. “Hmmm?”

  “In the library?”

  “Oh, yes.” She smiled at him. “I wished to thank you for the article you sent, and I was thinking about your rituals. I was reminded of something one of mother’s friends wrote to her about. Tensford was kind enough to allow me to search his library and I found a small bit about it.” She rose. “Shall I show you?”

  “Of course.”

  Whiddon stood too. “And I believe I’ll go as well, my lady, and flatter your cook into including some of her ginger biscuits on the tea tray.”

  Everything inside of her fluttered with nervous anticipation as Sterne followed her into the library. Although she noticed he pointedly left the door open as they entered.

  “Well, that wasn’t too obvious, was it?” he asked, his tone low.

  “What, Hope?” She grinned. “It was as much for her benefit as for ours, I believe. I do feel badly, occasionally. This is a special time in their relationship. They deserve some privacy.” She stretched her arms wide and spun in a slow circle. “And I’m happy for any excuse to spend time in this room.” She ran a hand over the low, comfortable sofa and went to the window. “Sunlight and the smell of books and old leather . . . is there any room so delightful as a library?”

  “I’m surprised you should think so. I thought it was people that you find fascinating?” He gestured around the room. “Not so many people about.”

  “Surely, you jest?” She reared back to look at him. “There are thousands of people and their stories in here. You are never truly alone in a library.”

  He looked about. “I never really thought of it, that way. I’ve found refuge in plenty of libraries, and always thought of myself as alone.”

  Something in her chest tightened. “That sounds so sad.”

  But something had caught his attention. His head tilted and he was listening.

  She did, as well. There it was. A song. She left the window and stepped quietly toward the door. Pushing it halfway closed, she stood behind it and strained to hear.

  Ah. She beckoned him. “It’s just one of the maids,” she whispered as he came closer. “She must be straightening up in Hope’s sitting room.” The girl was humming and every few bars would break out into the lyrics of her song. “I don’t know the tune. Do you?”

  “No. But I like it.”

  She thought about that. “Because it breaks the silence?” she asked, remembering their conversation during their travels.

  The look he gave her—it was conflicted, at best. “Yes. And because it means something else.”

  “What?”

  “The girl is happy. She’s not fearful or on edge. She’s comfortable enough to sing as she works. It’s a testament to Tensford and his countess.”

  “Because he’s created a comfortable household?”

  “A small community,” he clarified. “You are staying here. You must have noticed that it all functions smoothly. The footmen are attentive, but not tense. The maids are respectful, but do not scurry away at the sight of the earl or his guests.”

  “It is the same at Greystone, with both the staff and the tenants. They truly respect Tensford and I think they’ve grown to love Hope.”

  “It’s not an accident. It is a skill. A care for the people in their sphere. Believe me, it is not the same in every townhouse or country estate.”

  “We saw as much in Lady Tresham’s household, didn’t we?” she asked. “That footman was nervous at the thought of disappointing her—and it wasn’t out of love for her.”

  His gaze flew to hers at the mention of Lady Tresham’s household. She knew both of them were remembering what passed between them.

  “It’s a skill I would like to learn,” she whispered.

  “Being kind is a skill that you have already mastered,” he murmured. “Among others.”

  Her breathing ratcheted up a bit and she met his gaze directly. Turning so her back was to the door, she set it moving slowly so that it inched closer to closed. Excitement and desire unwound slowly in her belly, and lower. Arching her back just a tad, she sent him the invitation to come closer.

  He did.

  He reached for her hand. Slowly, his fingers traced a path upward, setting her skin to tingling. She shivered as he traced the edge of her bodice, then raised a hand to run a finger along her jaw. He gazed at her with longing—

  And went no further. His hand dropped. “Perhaps we’d better look at what you found to show me, before we are called back.”

  She pushed away disappointment. He was right. “Oh, yes. Of course.” He stepped away and she stepped carefully past him. “I remembered something in one of mother’s letters. She has a vast correspondence with botanists and gardeners all over the world. This gentleman wrote from the Catalonian region of Spain, and he mentioned something. When I recalled it, I thought of you.”

  She went to the table in the center of the room. “I left it here.” Finding the book, she handed it over. “It’s a guide to travel in Spain and it mentions the ritual I recalled. It’s the ball de bastons. A ritual dance, done with sticks and meant to represent battles between knights of old, I gather. It has spread to other places in Europe and I thought it might be related to our Morris dances.”

  He'd followed, but stopped as she spoke, glancing between her and the book in his hand. She glanced over him. “What is it? It just seemed like something you might be interested in. Was I wrong?”

  He stared, almost in amazement, it seemed.

  “Sterne?”

  His smile was slow growing, but it encompassed his whole face—and beyond. There were those appealing, small lines at his eyes, too. The sight of them eased the tightness that had begun to spread in her chest.

  “You amaze me,” he said quietly.

  She blinked. “Do I? Why?”

  “That is nearly exactly what my latest paper addresses.”

  The approval and wonder in his tone made her flush with gratification.

  “More specifically, I’ve compared that Catalonian weapon dance to the Abbots Bromley Horn Dance, which is an ancient ritual featuring reindeer horns, a hobby horse and a boy with a bow and arrow, among other things. The origin is lost to us, but some theorize the ceremony harkens back to when the hunt meant survival.”

  She frowned. “Horns? Didn’t you have an image of men brandishing horns on your desk?”

  “You noticed.” His eyes were still smiling. “There has been some speculation as to the origin of the horns. They are hundreds of years old and have been carefully preserved by the local church. Some say the animals were brought by the Danes, who invaded the old kingdom of Mercia.”

  She nodded eagerly. “That’s an area that I have found interesting. The Scots, the Danes, the Fr
ench . . . enemies, all, at one time or another, but you cannot deny their influence on the development of our English ways. That is an area I would like to study, one day.”

  “That makes sense.” He nodded at the books around them. “The study of our people and how they came to be as they are? It sounds just like something you would enjoy—and would be good at.”

  “My mother doesn’t agree. She wants me to concentrate on something more concrete.”

  He stepped closer and set the book on the table. “No. I think it is a grand idea. It would be the work of a lifetime.”

  Had the air gone still and warm again? That bubble of isolation stretched around them once more, rendering the rest of the world irrelevant. There was only him—and his unadulterated appreciation of her and her ideas.

  He couldn’t know what it meant, to be accepted so thoroughly. To be encouraged. To be looked at as if she was complete and whole and perhaps even perfect, just as she was.

  He looked down at her with those dark eyes. His tawny hair was just the slightest bit disheveled. He was so warm and appealing, and it hit her hard. The picture of what could be. Between them. Before them. A future of light and laughter and learning and passion.

  But he’d gone very still. Watchfulness began to replace the warmth in his gaze.

  She despaired a little. Confusion swamped her. What was it? What made him withdraw?

  “Here we are!” Whiddon poked his head in. Beyond him she could see a maid with a tea cart. The scent of ginger wafted into the room. “Come along, you two. Tea is ready.”

  Sterne took up the book. “Thank you,” he said softly. He waited for her to proceed him and they went back to the parlor.

  “Come and sit, everyone, and I’ll pour,” called Hope.

  They were all gathered together again. Penelope sat, but worry and disappointment stole her appetite. She didn’t know what to do, how to lure Sterne permanently out into the light.

  Talk turned again to what Sheffield had said.

  “Well, in any case, it does seem as we must attend this masquerade,” Hope declared as they were winding down. “It is a good thing that we ladies have an appointment with the modiste tomorrow morning. We will plan our costumes and likely have to offer an incentive to have them done in time.”